Faith
by squarey
Summary: With Bobby. What do you pray for?


"What do you pray for?" Bobby asked me. I stood with my eyes closed, my face tilted to the window where I could almost feel the heat of the sun kissing the morning sky.

"I pray that the bread will rise." I turned and smiled at him. For the past few months, every other Saturday or so, he would show up at the back door of the bakery. We had started casual conversation on weekday mornings when he would come by for coffee. He would tease me I was too young to have such a life, and I would reply that he was too old to think such a thing. Somewhere along the line I mentioned it was my turn to bake the bread on Saturdays. So, he knew, every Saturday, I would be in the kitchen of the bakery from about 4:00am to 7:00am, preparing the bread for the day.

"You pray that the bread will rise," he said, looking at the bowls of rising dough lined up across the counters near the warm oven in the kitchen. I nodded, and took one of the bowls, dumped the dough onto the counter, and punched it down.

"Among other things," I mumbled to myself, thinking that he didn't actually want to know what I prayed for. His curious nature had him automatically asking the question, his skeptical soul had him not waiting for the answer. This morning he had shown up near 5:00am. Some mornings he was drunk, and came by to sober up a bit, other mornings, he was sober and came by because sleep escaped him. This morning, was a little bit of both. "What are your plans for the day?" I asked.

"Plans for the day," he smiled to himself, running his left index finger through the flour on the counter, idly creating a ghost of a pattern. "I haven't had plans for the day in a while," he admitted. I knew he was on suspension from NYPD.

"You should make plans." I formed the dough into equal parts and deftly braided them together. "You need plans." I looked at him, but he didn't lift his eyes to meet mine.

* * *

"What do you pray for?" Bobby asked me. My lips compressed into a smile. Again, I sensed that he did not particularly want to know. So, I gave my same answer.

"I pray that the bread will rise," I replied, and he scowled at me. He was sober this morning, but I could see that he hadn't slept in a while.

"At sunrise, you pray that the bread will rise." His tone was abrupt, frustrated. And even though he was taking it out on me, I knew that it wasn't about me.

"Wash your hands, help me with this," I asked. So, he washed his hands and rolled up his sleeves and helped me punch down the dough. I figured it was better than verbally punching at me. "What're your plans for the day?"

"I need plans," he mumbled grumpily to himself as he beat the hell out of the dough. This meant he still had not heard from NYPD about his reinstatement. "I need to sleep," he continued, and I took this to be a good thing. I wondered how many times he continued on, not recognizing the need to sleep, and the toll it took on his actions, on his decisions.

"That's a plan." I smiled, and gently took the dough away from him while it was still good for bread. This time he met my eyes, but he did not smile.

* * *

"What do you pray for?" He was slumped over the counter, very drunk, arms crossed, head down on his hands, looking at me. "Do you pray for the bread to rise?" he supplied my answer.

"You know, the sun, it always rises." I turned to look at him. I had finished most of the bread and was putting it in the oven. My reply was genuine, my tone was not flip.

"The sun," he stated, his depressed brain cells not exactly tracking what I was saying.

"Yes, every day." I glanced out the window at the brilliant oranges and pinks of dawn.

"Every day, day after day, I see the sun." He pushed himself to sitting up right.

"Do you have plans for today?" I asked.

"Yeah, I have this thing. Well, there is this guy. Or, um, yesterday, I was…" He trailed off and ran his hand through his hair. "I think I have a job," he said.

"With NYPD?" I asked, wondering if he had heard about the end of his suspension.

"Kind of," he replied, and I wasn't sure if he was being enigmatic or if he was simply being drunk. He looked at me, his brows knitting together as if he was deep in thought. "So, the sun always rises, and the bread always rises, so why do you pray for the bread to rise?" he asked, and this time, I sensed that he almost wanted to know.

* * *

"What do you pray for Sister?" Bobby asked me, he was near the window. The sun was already in the sky.

"I pray for…"

"I don't think you pray for the bread to rise." He cut me off and walked away from the window. "I don't think your prayers are that simple."

"Sometimes they are," I replied.

"Well, the meaning..." he paused, studying me " ...it isn't that simple."

"Do you have plans for today?"

"I have plans for Monday. At my desk, in Major Case." His eyebrows were knitted together, he was running his thumbs across his fingers. He was palpably agitated. "Not an easy thing, making plans." Obviously his reinstatement had come at a cost.

"Not an easy thing." I agreed with him.

"I think you pray for the day. The sun always rises. The bread always rises. You pray for the day." He turned to face me. "You give thanks for the day."

"Do, you?" I asked.

"I'll start with today, maybe today," he replied, rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes.

"And when you see the sun tomorrow?" I pressed him, not quite able to stop myself.

"We'll see about that tomorrow," he replied. And, I took his words to heart - at least there was a possibility for tomorrow.

* * *

A/N: Written for a story challenge, prompt was "Thanks". On my insides when I think of thanks, I think of faith.


End file.
